


Lathbora viran

by annoyingeuropeanfemale



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Experimental Style, Game Spoilers, Introspection, Missing Scene, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Slice of Life, follows game plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annoyingeuropeanfemale/pseuds/annoyingeuropeanfemale
Summary: The failures and victories of Nayra Mahariel - Dalish hunter, reluctant Grey Warden, unenthusiastic solver of Ferelden's problems, and unexpected hero.





	Lathbora viran

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very, very long time since I posted anything or even wrote anything really, but I finally got around to playing the Dragon Age games and I was hooked, and knew instantly that I had to write a story for my beautiful Warden because Bioware games always make me feel things and get way too attached to their characters. The writing (and consequently the updating) will probably be random at best and abandoned at the very worst, but I am trying to write more and trying some new styles so who knows? Maybe I'll finally get to finish something once in my life.
> 
> (Lathbora viran - roughly translated as "the path to a place of lost love", a longing for a thing one can never really know)

You were nineteen summers old when you were attacked by a great bear alone in the forest. You came back to camp delirious and covered in blood, half of it your own, but with a pelt that now proclaimed you a hunter, and promptly collapsed in front of Ashalle who rushed to your aid. You were nursed back to health, the only reminder of the encounter being the fine pale scars that stayed on your side (“Don’t heal them completely” you told Merrill, the First, and you were sure she didn’t understand but the Keeper nodded to her to do as told and you breathed more easily then), and a few days after you were called to the Keeper’s aravel and she told you it was due time you got your vallaslin.

You took yourself and your prayers to the edge of the camp, kneeling near the statue of Fen’Harel, and thanked all the Creators each, and after you were done with the preparation you sought the Keeper and told her you were ready.

“Have you chosen who you’re dedicating your vallaslin to yet?” Keeper Marethari asks as she prepares the ink, your hand freshly bandaged after giving your blood.

“Ghilan’nain, Keeper.” You see her hand pause for a moment, her eyes raising to meet yours. “The simple one, please, and in a color of Ashalle’s choosing.” The Keeper’s eyes wander to Ashalle, and you see something passing between the two women before you hear Ashalle’s voice.

“I think the deep forest green would suit her and her choice, yes?”

“May I ask what made you chose Ghilan’nain, da’len?” By her tone you think there is more to your choice than your own reasons, but you cannot bring yourself to care about it too much, whatever it is that the Keeper or Ashalle or the rest of the clan think. You shrug easily at her question.

“A wild halla guided me back to camp after I was attacked. I thought perhaps it was a sign.”

“Very well then. May you always lead our people to better paths. Mala suledin nadas.”

In the years to come, you often thought about the words the Keeper spoke before your vallaslin. You often thought that truer words were never spoken to you.

 

* * *

 

You know as surely as you know your name that the best way to truly get to know someone is to travel with them. Of course, you never imagined you would have to test this wisdom while traveling to Ostagar with a shemlen that was to save your life while making you a Grey Warden, but you figured that if the Creators were watching, they were having a grand time about the whole affair.

“Tell me, Mahariel, if you’d please, are you always this quiet or is it just because of me?” Duncan asks you on the road, and you can’t help but think that the shems always had funny names. You glance at this strange human who may or may not save you, a good foot taller than you, voice soft and not accusing, and you remember the Keeper telling you how very respectful he was while amid your clan.

“If you insist on being called Duncan, then I insist on being called Nayra.”

He laughs at that, quick and soft, something akin to surprise remaining on his face. He studies you, and you wonder what he saw in you that he so readily offered the hope of living to your clan.

“Very well then, Nayra. My original question still stands.”

You catch yourself chewing on your lip corner, an annoying habit picked from someone or other from the clan, something you only do when decisions are to be made, and you hurriedly stop.

“I’m not sure what there is to discuss with you.” You start, and then you run the phrase again in your head and want to slap yourself. “Ir abelas, that sounded harsh. I meant to say that you, yourself, told the Keeper that the Joining can’t be talked about. With that in mind, I can’t fathom what we might discuss on the road. The weather, maybe?”

He laughs again, and you can’t stop the pride swelling in you. You got the distinct impression that this man doesn’t have the opportunity to do that very often.

“You remind me of our newest Warden. I imagine you’ll get along once he’ll stop tripping on words around you. I don’t believe he’s ever met one of the Dalish.” You want to respond with something sharp, but he continued without giving you the opportunity. “I thought perhaps you had questions about the Grey Wardens, and if so, I’d be happy to answer you.”

You’re struck then by the thought that you should hate this man, this shemlen who came so selfishly to your clan to ask for the People’s lives for his order, who told you Tamlen was gone with such certainty that you had no choice but to believe him, who told the Keeper that the only way for you to live through this taint was to take you away from the only family you ever had. He came and whisked you away, the only sure thing he could offer being the fact that you’ll never see your clan, your family, again, and off you went at his heels, darkness and sickness clawing at your insides, while you marched to fight a war you or any of the People never wanted to be part of.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to despise or punish this man for the past few days, not for mistakes he’s trying to fix and certainly not for a death that was your doing. You study him for a while, the deep lines etched on his face and the barely-there grey at his temples, and for whatever reason your stomach churns painfully when you think about the future he has. You put those thoughts aside for now, try to ignore your tiredness and the feeling of complete wrongness your body seems to have permanently acquired, the darkness coursing through your veins, and you focus everything you can into your curiosity.

He wanted questions? You always had plenty.

 

* * *

 

Ostagar is not what you expect.

For one, King Cailan greets you upon your arrival, and while your people don’t have royalty, you try to be polite and respectful. There is a sparkle in his eyes when he talks about the Grey Wardens, and even with the coming battle his voice is joyous and confident, but you spent enough time with people who are always sincere to know when someone is hiding something.  It is though not your place to say anything, so you don’t, but you see Duncan’s frown and the tightness around his lips and the worry he tries to hide after Cailan leaves.

 Duncan excuses himself, tells you he has a lot to do, asks you to not leave the camp for the moment – and isn’t that a wild notion? A shemlen asking you something, nicely. He has been feeding you health potions and some kind of plant tea all the way, and while you still felt the sickness crawling in your insides, you felt well enough to go and explore the camp. Your curiosity always got the better of you.

You wander around camp, mindful of your presence. The shemlens don’t hide their looks, but they also don’t linger with them. You suppose most of them have never seen one of the People, but nobody bothers you as you explore – if it’s out of fear for you being apparently the only armed elvhen in the camp or out of politeness, you’ll probably never know. Most are nice enough, if a bit weary, when you stop them to ask questions, and it becomes rapidly apparent that Duncan sent word ahead that’s he’s bringing a Dalish elf with him, since most already know who you are.

You meet the other two recruits and you don’t know what to make of them. You’re good with your knives but you’re also good with your tongue, and you convince both guards to tell you more about the King and the Teyrn. There is much you don’t know about the strange practice of these humans, but you can find out, and information is always useful. You meet a human mage that reminds you too much of Keeper Marethari for you to be entirely comfortable, and you learn of the fate of the Tranquil and your stomach is in knots and you want to scream at him if only to get a reaction. You help a prisoner get one last meal and he gives you a key, but you have no interest in the wares of the mages so the next time you pass near their tents you discreetly drop the key near the chest and are on your way. You try not to insult the quartermaster, but you suggest that he should try to be nicer to the other elves, and if that suggestion is made while you test the grip of one of his daggers no one has to know. You get asked to help with a dog, and even if you’ve never seen one up close you manage to muzzle it, to the kennels’ master’s surprise but not your own – you’ve always had a way with animals. You excuse yourself with the promise that if you head into the wilds you’ll try to look for the plant, if only to ease the poor dog’s suffering.

You make your way to the north of the camp and finally find the Warden Duncan talked about, and that interaction is easily the most amusing you’ve had so far. He doesn’t remember your name but doesn’t bother to hide it, and his painfully earnest way of talking reminds you of both Tamlen and Merrill – but no, now is not the time to think about them, they’re gone and you’re here. You tease him a bit, testing the waters when he mentions there aren’t many female Wardens (“that’s because we’re smarter than you lot”, “oh? and what does that make you?”, “incredibly unlucky”) and he says “ouch” but with a smile on his face and shining eyes, and you think _he looks happy enough for a Warden_ , and when you study his face you think _maybe it won’t be so bad_.

 

* * *

 

You startle awake with a gasp and the memory of nightmares clinging to your skin, and the wild woman tending to you has a look akin to both wonder and worry in her eyes. She explains how you survived and you thank her sincerely, even if you’d much rather preferred you were dead, and she answers your questions while you put your armor back on, movements stiff and body still sore.

Alistair has such a look of relief in his eyes when he sees you that you almost want to laugh, but you understand his need to not be the last one standing after Ostagar. You’re not sure what you would’ve done yourself had you woken up alone, a day-old Grey Warden who knows nothing of the order she became a part of, and you’re all the more grateful for the sincerity on this man’s face.

You get the impression Flemeth is more amused than worried for what is yet to come, and she gives her advice as thinly veiled suggestions while all that goes through your head is _run, run, go and never look back_ , but it is much too late for that. You think you’re still in shock when you kindly thank the old witch for what she has done for you and promise you’ll do your best to protect her daughter, or maybe you truly are dead, and this is all some trick or test in the Beyond. Either way, it is too late now to turn back, and you send a silent prayer to Ghilan’nain to guide your path as you venture forth to stop a Blight.

 

* * *

 

 

You’re not surprised when Alistair defers command to you, even if it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t know how to do what must be done, and still the only thing on your mind while you were making your way to Lothering was running away, just sidestepping into the forest that accompanied most of the road and run as fast as your feet could carry you. Maybe if you were lucky enough, you might’ve even outrun the Blight.

The whole journey had been mostly quiet, with occasional remarks from the Witch of the Wilds and barks from the mabari that you helped at Ostagar – you started calling him Fen and he responded happily enough at the name, even though you saw Morrigan’s raised eyebrows when you announced it. You accepted the passing of the burden of decision with just a token resistance and a deep sigh and put the matter completely out of mind for the time being.

Lothering is full of people, each with their own problems and each with a need for someone to solve them. An elvhen family asks for help, and them you can’t ignore, so you inform them of the bandits’ retreat and wish them luck, and after them there is a little lost boy and your heart breaks a little when you put the pieces together on what happened to his parents, so you give him a silver to buy some food and send him to the Chantry, hoping that at least the people there would be kind enough to take care of an orphan. After that it’s a constant string of helping refugees and resolving petty squabbles, and when you finally, _finally_ , leave Lothering it’s with a Chantry sister and a Qunari, of all things, in tow, supplies to last you at least a week on the road, and the mother of all headaches.

You barely register the darkspawn that try to ambush you outside the village, and they are disposed of quickly. The merchant that you save thanks you, but flinches when he hears that you’re a Grey Warden, and that stays with you the rest of the day. Apart from the initial short introductions, nobody utters another word until you set up camp for the night. Even Fen stays quiet, pressing into your legs regularly, as if to make sure you’re still there. _If he can sense my mood_ , you think, _I don’t want to know what the others might think._

You let yourself fall onto your sleeping bag as soon as camp is set, and before you know it your exhaustion catches up to you and you stumble into sleep almost as soon as your head hits your makeshift pillow.

 

* * *

 


End file.
